“Rubbish!” said Mendel. “They say that of every man who makes a success, as though it needed something strange to account for it. It’s either softening of the brain, or consumption, or three wives, or he is killing himself with drink. They talk as though art itself were some kind of disease.”
Logan had seen Mendel, and their eyes met. Mendel felt that Logan was looking clean through him, looking at him as a ghost might look at a man whom he had known in life, fondly, tenderly, icily through him, without expecting him to be aware of the terrible scrutiny. But Mendel was aware of it, and it chilled him to the marrow. Logan gave no sign, but stared and stared, and presently turned his eyes away without a sign, without a tremor. It was like turning away the light of a lantern. He turned his eyes from Mendel to Oliver in one sweep. No one else but those two seemed to exist for him, and Mendel felt that he no longer existed. And more than ever Logan looked as if he were peering over Oliver’s shoulder with those staring, piercing eyes of his from which the soul had gone out. Only the glowing spark of a fixed will was left in them to keep them sane and human.
Mendel began to drink. The orchestra behind him sent the rhythm of a waltz thumping through him. But it went heavily, without music or tune. One—two—three. It was like having molten lead poured on the nape of his neck, threatening to jerk his head off his spine. From where he sat he could not see the dancing-floor, except reflected in a mirror opposite him. . . . Oh! it was a gay sight and a silly It had nothing to do with him. He could see nothing but Oliver with the grim, haggard face looking over her shoulder. He gulped down a glass of wine. That was better. It made things bearable. He poured out another glass of wine.
“I think there is more in the Futurists than the Cubists,” said the young artist.
“In art,” said Mendel, turning on him savagely, “there is neither past nor present nor future; there is only eternity. You try to make a group out of that, and see how you will get on. You can put that at the head of your manifesto and your group would melt away under it like the fat on a basted pigeon.”
He put out his hand for his glass, but Morrison had taken it and was drinking.
“You’ll make yourself drunk,” he said, taking it from her gently.
“I finished it all,” she said, with an unhappy smile. “I didn’t want you to drink it, and you looked so tragic I knew it would be bad for you.”
The young artist crept away. Mendel took Morrison’s hand and gripped it.
“I’m glad you are with me,” he said. “Look at Logan!”